Page 40 of Count My Lies

On the way to the register, a box of hair dye caught my eye, a red-maned woman on the front. It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered how I’d look as a redhead; looking at Allison, it was hard not to imagine what it would be like if you were the one with hair like hers, who you might be if you looked like that.

Casually, almost without thinking, I put the box into my basket. It wasn’t the exact same shade as Allison’s, but it was close. An hour later, I was toweling off my damp, newly dyed hair.

Seeing myself, I was pleased. Of course, the color wasn’t as flattering on me as it was on her, but it looked good. And here’s how stupid I was: I thought Allison would be tickled by it.People will think we’re sisters!I imagined her saying, smiling at me. I repeat, how stupid I was.

Then, standing in Allison’s bathroom, I saw a tube of mascara on the counter and thought,I wonder how I’d look with a little makeup. So I opened it. One thing led to another. I dabbed her perfume on my wrists, brushed my hair with her brush, slipped a pair of hoop earrings into my lobes. Before I knew it, I was stepping out of my jeans and into one of her dresses.

It was fun, pretending, for a moment, to be her, to feel what it was like to wear her clothes, her shoes, her jewelry. I’d meant nothing by it, really.

I wanted to tell her that, as she stood in the doorway staring, but I couldn’t open my mouth. Not with the way she was looking at me. Then she spoke. “Get out. Get the fuck out.” Her voice was strangled.

I rose clumsily from the floor, trembling, my movements jerky. As I started toward the door, still in her dress, her stilettos, I stepped on the swath of fabric swirling at my feet. I lurched forward. My arms shot out as I stumbled, reaching for something, anything, to steady myself. It was only by chance that I grabbed the marble jewelry stand atop her dresser. I took another step before regaining mybalance, teetering in the pencil-thin heels, my arm outstretched, pointed at her.

Both Allison and I stared at the heavy weight in my hand. When she looked back up at me, there was fear in her eyes. My jaw dropped open. I shook my head. No, I would never. But then, for the briefest millisecond: if I did, she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about this, about what she thought I was doing in her closet.

No, I would never. I released my grip and the stand thudded to the floor, a heavy thunk against the soft carpet. Then I bolted, our shoulders brushing as I left the closet. I wondered if she could smell her perfume on me and thought I might be sick.

I went straight to my room when I got home. I locked the door—something I almost never did—and didn’t answer my mom’s knocking. When I finally opened it later that night, my mom wrapped her arms around me, holding me tightly. I told her everything.

The next morning felt brighter, more promising. It was a misunderstanding, my mother and I repeated to each other over breakfast. She reached across the small table in our kitchen and patted my hand. A simple misunderstanding. Although it wasn’t, not exactly.

When I returned to work, the long weekend over, the school director was waiting for me outside my classroom. Her normally cheery face was grim. She glanced up at my dyed hair, then away as if she’d seen something she wished she hadn’t. Nervously, I made a stupid joke, something dumb about the odds of running into each other like this, but she didn’t smile. She’d gotten a substitute for me, she said, and could I please follow her? We walked down the hall, side by side. Neither of us said a word.

When we sat down, I tried to explain, but she held up a hand, shaking her head. She talked, but I barely heard her. She droned onand I tuned in every so often. She had no other choice, she said at one point, then, something about unacceptable behavior. Then,effective immediately. I looked up from the spot I’d been staring at on her desk. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine. I’d have the chance to say goodbye to my class, then I’d be escorted out.

This time, when we walked down the hall, I walked behind her, instead of next to her, shamefaced, trying not to cry. I’d worked there for six years. Six years and with one misunderstanding, it was over.

When I left the school, pushing through the heavy double doors, I thought that was the end, that that was the worst of it. I’d get a new job, I told myself. At a different school, in another borough. I was wrong, of course. The next day, two police officers knocked on our apartment door and charged me with stalking and menacing in the third degree.

At the station, they told me I could call a lawyer of my choosing or the court would appoint one to me. I ended up with the latter, as I couldn’t afford anyone else, especially now that I no longer had a job. The first time I met with my attorney, it was in a shitty office building in midtown. He was young and his suit was ill-fitting—too big in the shoulders, pant cuffs that dragged on the floor—an overstuffed messenger bag slung over one shoulder. I thought he could help me. I thought he wanted to.

“I didn’t break in,” I insisted, before he had a chance to open his mouth, “she gave me a key. I was there to feed her cat. We were friends. I would never hurt her.” And I wasn’t lying to him. We were friends. Sometimes, if the kids were asleep when she got home, she’d uncork a bottle of wine and pour herself a glass at the kitchen counter, a tea for me, and we’d talk, about her day, about mine, our families, stories about growing up, some true, some not. Then, when it waslate, she’d walk me to the door and give me a quick hug, tell me she’d see me the next day. We werefriends.

My attorney listened wearily, nodding as I explained, but I don’t think he heard me. His eyes were vacant, a half-lit neon motel sign, flickering every so often. He was overworked, I’m sure, buried by cases just like mine, overtired and underpaid. When I was done, he took a breath and told me he’d worked out a deal with Allison’s lawyer, that I should take the plea. They agreed to drop the menacing charge if I pled guilty to stalking in the fourth degree, a misdemeanor. No jail time, but there would be an order of protection in place, of course, he said. Of course. Of course, tacked onto the sentence like it was the only thing that made sense. “An order of protection?” I repeated, voice hoarse, watery. He nodded. “It would prohibit all contact between you and Ms. McIntyre.”

I asked to be excused to the bathroom and walked down the speckled linoleum hallway, my shoes squeaking, and threw up in the toilet. The retching echoed off the walls.

As soon as I sat back down, he repeated himself: I should take the plea. Employers can’t ask about a criminal record during the hiring process, he said. It was a best-case scenario. If this went to court, I could face felony charges. “Take the plea,” he said for the third time.

I looked at him, gaping like a stupid fucking fish. Had he already forgotten what I did for a living? I was a teacher. Any reputable school would run a background check. A misdemeanor would show up. Everything shows up. And no one would hire a teacher with a stalking charge, against a parent, no less. If I accepted the plea, it would be like tying a noose around my own neck, or at least, letting him tie it for me.

But in the end, that’s what I did. What else could I have done?Which was why I’d spent so long out of work, how I’d ended up as a nail tech instead of at the front of a classroom. Because of a box of hair dye. More or less.

So I know why my mom is looking at me the way she is. I’d be looking at me that way, too, if I didn’t know any better. But my friendship with Violet is different.

“This is different,” I repeat. There’s a pleading note in my voice.

My mom doesn’t say anything else. Gently, she puts her hand to my cheek, then nods and goes back to the kitchen.

My shoulders slump. I wish I could make her understand. I wish I could put into words how lonely I’d been before I met Violet. Allison and her kids were like my family. Mockingbird was my home. Without either, it felt like I was drowning.

I was finally coming up for air when I met Violet. There she was, like a life buoy, bobbing on the surface. I grabbed on and breathed in, my lungs full for the first time in months.

But the best part about Violet is that she needs me like I need her. She’s told me so. Over and over again. Maybe I misread things with Allison, maybe I mistook courtesy for friendship, but I’m not wrong this time. I know I’m not.

I straighten and smile to myself. This time is different.

18

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